


Take Two

by LadyAJ_13



Series: The Oxford Disaster Trio [5]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: F/M, Lingerie, Multi, Not really dirty talk but I can't think of another way to put it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:41:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22211971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: “Do you like it Morse?”He swallows thickly, and nods.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday, Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse/Joan Thursday
Series: The Oxford Disaster Trio [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541815
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37





	Take Two

**Author's Note:**

> I realised in this series I tend to have either all three of them in a scene or Morse and Jakes together - because that's easier, they work together, that's an easy setting for a conversation. But it felt unfair to Joan, so this is a Morse and Joan moment set in this verse, and I'm halfway through a Peter and Joan one - stay tuned for that.

“Do you like it Morse?”

He swallows thickly, and nods. This is not what he'd expected when he'd come home early – well, to Joan's, but that's pretty much the same thing these days. She smiles, and puts one hand on her hip, jutting it out like some siren of the silver screen.

“Do you think Peter will like it?”

He knows he will. If anything, Peter has more of a lingerie kink than he does; something about the act of unwrapping another that works so well with his own fussy care over his appearance. Morse, while he appreciates a pretty bow, has always been more impatient for what's underneath.

Joan runs one hand up her leg, teasing the top of her stocking where it peeks out from her silk dressing gown. She dips the very edge of one finger underneath, then pulls back. She's left the gown hanging open, a shock of black lace just visible against pale skin, and a noticeable gap further up that says she's left the bra on the hanger.

“What do you think he'll want to do to me?”

“Everything,” he says hoarsely.

“No,” she grins teasingly, and leans close enough to press a finger to the end of his nose. He breathes in the scent of her perfume. “Tell me. What will he want to do to me?”

He grips her by the hips, and her hands settle over his, soft and warm. Staying his touch. “Kiss you,” he says, and leans in – but is stopped by her fingers catching his mouth. He darts his tongue over the tips, until she pulls away.

“Tell me,” she says again. “What next?”

So that's how she wants to play it. “Kiss you,” he repeats. “On the mouth, but he won't stay there long. He's fascinated by your neck; he'll trail his way down, those little kisses of his that tickle, the odd one that bites.” He lets his eyes play over the smooth expanse of her skin, the way she tilts her head like she's making room, the way she would if Peter was here, running his lips over her. His gaze catches on the little hollow just at her throat. “He'll suck on your collarbone.”

“Then what?”

His grip tightens on her hips, fingers slipping on cool silk. “Then he'd run his hands down too. Stroke every inch. Over the gown. He wouldn't want to unwrap you too quickly.” Unlike him, he thinks. It takes every ounce of willpower not to throw the game away when her tongue darts out to wet her lip. “He'd only dip underneath when you were begging for it. Then he'd sweep here.” He bends the rules, strokes his thumbs up and down where they rest, over the curve of her belly. “Press against you, let you feel him. He'd...”

“Yes?”

“Get down on his knees for you. Get his mouth on you too, taste, let you hold him by the hair, put him where you want him,” he says in a rush.

“And if I didn't?”

He knows he's pink, strangely embarrassed to be narrating something they normally just _do_ , not think about, not talk about. Joan's flushed too; a deep colour painted across her cheeks. “He'd undo your stockings.”

“Oh yes,” she sighs happily. “He loves that, doesn't he?”

“Roll them down, so neatly. Baring inch after inch of skin. Let you step out of them, balancing with your hands on his shoulders.”

“Mmm?”

“Then he'd ask to take you to bed.”

Her breathing is noticeably heavy. “And while he's busy with all that... what will you do Morse?”

Honestly? Probably keel over. He's painted a mental picture, and the thought of it happening in real life, in front of him, has him hot, flustered. So turned on. He could slip in to the tableau, press himself up behind her, kiss her neck and feel her breathe as Peter worked – but honestly, he wants to _see_ it more. “Watch,” he says finally.

Footsteps sound outside, a man's brogues against pavement, and they both prick up their ears. Waiting. A key sounds in the front door, and their eyes meet.

Joan smirks, and pushes him into the armchair. “Get comfy. Let's see how right you are.”


End file.
